


not nineteen forever

by taeilstummy



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, And Knives?, British Slang, Cigarettes, Coming of Age, Drunken Confessions, Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, POV Multiple, Prostitution, Religious Conflict, be gay do crimes, both ships are equally as important, inspired by a song so maybe it’s a songfic in a sense, oh yeah there’s 2 secs of attempted humour, referenced first times, set in 90s england, takes place across one night, very minor mentions of blood and vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taeilstummy/pseuds/taeilstummy
Summary: Donghyuck quickly chucks the last tin across the entrance of the church, grabs his vodka and leads the others back over the brick wall and out onto the street. Jesus' baked bean eyes glower after them as the steps run red.-one night, four boys, and enough ambiguity to cause heartache.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Na Jaemin, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	not nineteen forever

**Author's Note:**

> me? actually finishing a fic? scandalous, but here we are, and I sure hope you enjoy! 
> 
> if you like listening to music as you read, any britpop playlist will do, though ofc I shall recommend its namesake: not nineteen forever - courteeners; That’s The Vibe. 
> 
> (to note: there’s a section for each character’s pov labelled after the initial of their first names detailing specific events of the night — chronological but entwined. it shouldn’t be confusing, I just wanted to mention it. also I rated this M for the stuff tagged, beware of a referenced blowjob too eek.) 
> 
> (also. this is unbeta’d. I might come back at a later date to clean it up a little.)

R

"I'm dipping, come with?"

Two sets of eyes flicker towards the source of the voice. Around Donghyuck's eyes are rings of led and copper forged by inebriety and smudged makeup; he looks crazy — he looks _so_ fucking crazy, pupils spectral at best. 

"Dipping? What for?"

"To explore, to _live_!"

Vibrations from the loudly-playing Blur song — Jubilee, he thinks, though he's more of a The Smiths fan himself — seep through Renjun's spine and into his fingertips, the end of his cigarette flickering orange amid the slight flutters. Jaemin is right beside him; he was just complaining about something or other, nonsensical, drunken, and now he's staring at Donghyuck in stupefied awe. There are more people crammed into the room, making out or chugging beer — or swinging _slinkies_ , apparently. Even the unbothered, the tired and the lonely vibrate with the swell of song.

 _Is this not living?_ Renjun vocalises as much, taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

"This is a rough fucking mediocrity," Donghyuck deadpans. "I'm tired, Renjun. Sick and tired — of just _existing_."

"And you suppose that, what? That we leave early, walk in the cold for a bit and you'll stumble upon the meaning of life?"

Jaemin's soft chuckle spills against Renjun's arm.

Dark eyes take in the room skittishly — Donghyuck is quick to dismiss what he sees, lips quirking into a jeer. "I just want to _live_ ," he repeats in his drunken stupor. "I'm more likely to find something out there than trapped in here. A stray cat would be more fucking riveting." 

Renjun seeks Jaemin's gaze and finds an answer. Intrigue. "Fine," Renjun huffs. He stubs out his cigarette, muttering complaints to himself as he stands. 

"Can I have one of those?"

Renjun, now level with Donghyuck, furrows his brows. "One of what?"

"A fag."

"You don't smoke." Renjun laughs sceptically, patting the packet of cigarettes in the pocket of his jeans. 

"There's a first time for everything," Donghyuck hums. Renjun raises a brow but offers him one nonetheless. He even has the courtesy of lighting it for him from where it sits between dry, perched lips. As Donghyuck splutters on the first inhale, Renjun smirks. 

"What an ironic way of living," Jaemin murmurs.

"He is but an oxymoron. Let's go."

Renjun reels Jaemin in and guides him through the masses of people with a placating hand against his shoulder, Donghyuck sauntering just behind.

"He won't be if he gets lung cancer and dies. He'll be a fool."

"I can hear you, y'know," Donghyuck whines, just as Renjun kicks aside a discarded beer can loitering on the floor.

Jaemin winds his neck to find Donghyuck in his peripheral. "Yeah, well, I'm pretty vocal about how much I hate Renjun smoking. I don't need _you_ thinking it's cool too."

"Says the drunk," Donghyuck scoffs. "Don't you worry your pretty pink head off, Minnie." 

They reach the front porch and Donghyuck makes a point of slamming the front door shut behind them, music dimming to numb reverberations. His exhale is lost in the noise, but his chilled breath and spluttered smoke make themselves seen amidst the chilly backdrop of night.

"This tastes like fucking shit. Renjun, did you _spike_ this?"

Renjun grins. "You'll get used to it."

"I don't think I will." The stick falls unceremoniously to the ground and Donghyuck's foot smushes the embers into the grass. This isn't even his garden. Actually, Renjun quite frankly doesn't know _where_ they are, he'd been roped against his will into chaperoning the two wankers he calls his best friends and now here they are at some random blokes' house party.

Renjun follows Donghyuck as he barges past the front gate and stumbles into the open street. It's eerily still. There's a soreness to the air that stings, and a single streetlight a few metres away flickering on and off. Jaemin falls into line in the middle of the pair, glancing at Donghyuck with a grimace.

"You look like shit."

Donghyuck glares at him, gives him a once over and goes, "So does that outfit you have on." 

"Hey!" The volume of Jaemin's voice is multiplied in the silence of the night. He's a loud, clingy drunk in the way that Donghyuck is an obnoxious, whiny drunk — Renjun just doesn't get drunk, it does wonders for his sanity. 

Though to be fair, Donghyuck's statement isn't exactly _wrong_ , per se. Jaemin looks like a walking jar of hard boiled sweets: red and blue Fila jacket atop an off-white tee, dark-red-nearly-black tapered trousers rolled up to show coral slouch stocks, plain white trainers and — behold — candyfloss pink hair that throws the entire thing wildly off-balance. Donghyuck presents a perfect contrast: a too-big Diesel leather jacket layered over a pastel teal tee, cuffed jeans, black converse, an ugly — though Renjun shouldn't really say as much considering it was handmade by his younger sister — bead bracelet and a singular gold hoop earring nestled behind overgrown wisps of wavy hair. They're quite the sight, side-by-side, but Renjun at least hopes his neutral attire ties them all nicely together like three peas in a funky pod.

"Where are we even going?" Renjun asks.

"Wherever the wind bloody takes us."

And so they walk, as ridiculous as it is. It's rather nippy so Renjun zips his fleece to his chin and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

Midnight is an extremely awkward time. It's ambiguous at best — the intersection between dusk and dawn with characteristics of neither. Just darkness veiled in artificial yellow light, entertained by the sounds of animal calls, stray cats scurrying through the night and the odd car in the distance on its way to somewhere or nowhere with no distinction.

"Oh, _I_ know where we are!" Donghyuck announces after a few blocks. He comes to a stop on the curb, surveying his surroundings, then points northeast. "The church is up that way. Do you think the off-licence will sell paint? I need paint. Preferably more alcohol too.

"Why do you need _paint_?" Jaemin asks.

"And I'm certain you'll explode if you have another drop of alcohol. You're acting like an absolute madman," Renjun tacks on.

"I'll explode nonetheless, why not do so in spectacular fashion?" Donghyuck drawls. Jaemin scoffs. 

The off-licence is one of the few lit buildings surrounding the nearest roundabout. A heavy-looking bloke with two conspicuously dark beverages exits right as Donghyuck is about to enter, causing an awkward moment of tension that incites a three-second look of constipated terror on Jaemin's face. Renjun dawdles behind the other two as they head to the alcohol section, eyes flitting over to the middle-aged woman at the counter idly flicking through a magazine. Donghyuck grabs two bottles containing clear liquid, hovers in front of some magazines for a bit with his brows furrowed in concentration, then spins on his heel and grabs a plethora of tins from behind Renjun's head. 

Chopped tomatoes and baked beans, Renjun notes at the checkout. 

"Got the munchies?" Renjun asks bewilderedly upon leaving the store. 

Donghyuck shakes his head. He momentarily dumps his plastic bag and its contents on the pavement, save for one of the bottles — Renjun doesn't drink, but he assumes it's vodka — which he struggles to uncap before swigging. And then gagging on the spot. He holds it out to Jaemin with a sour face.

"They were my only paint alternatives."

"What the bloody hell do you need paint for?" Renjun asks.

"You'll see," Donghyuck replies nonchalantly.

They begin walking again, in a direction lead by Donghyuck, to appease a plan conducted by Donghyuck, and Renjun's soul definitely doesn't bode well with the prospect of blindly following him through the night, but he does so out of his instinct to safeguard. All is not as it seems — Renjun knows that much. Jaemin, too, is definitely more drunk than he lets on; Renjun can tell by how languid he is in the droughts leading up to his bursts of loud commentary, by his flushed cheeks and shaking hands. 

Unexpectedly, they come to a stop outside the church. There's a short brick barrier wrapped around the perimeter that Donghyuck slings himself over easily. Renjun and Jaemin have no choice but to follow, though Renjun does so grudgingly. 

Once in front of the tall, archaic building, Donghyuck lifts up the blue plastic bag, which by now is bursting under the weight of its contents. He takes out the tins and meticulously lines them up on the front steps, save one. 

Renjun doesn't even have time to open his mouth to ask what the hell is going on before Donghyuck steps back and lobs it as hard as he can at the limestone bricks. 

"What the actual _fuck_ , Donghyuck?" Renjun practically yelps. 

It's a pesky throw, but it creates a series of loud echoes that ring through the night and comes volleying right back towards him. He dodges it and picks it back up to inspect the small dint he'd caused, frowning.

"What are you trying to accomplish, exactly?" Renjun asks.

" _Paint the town red_." 

"You're bonkers."

"My family go to church on Sundays," Jaemin points out. "They won't be happy. Mark won't be happy, either." 

At that, Donghyuck picks up a tin of tomatoes and launches it at the wall so hard that Renjun expects it to split. It doesn't — it bounces back and hits the side of his shin, causing him to wince.

He regards the rolling tin. "At most it'll smell like tomatoes for a few days. Don't worry, Minnie."

Jaemin sighs. There's movement, and then he's procuring something from his pocket. It's small, black, and when he flips it open theres the visible glint of metal under the streetlights. 

A pocket knife. 

Renjun feels his mouth go dry. Why Jaemin is carrying a pocket knife around with him, Renjun doesn't know. Why Donghyuck wants the church walls to resemble blood, Renjun also doesn't know. He's pretty sure he's the only sane person there — like he said, avoiding alcohol does wonders.

"To open the tins," Jaemin says in response to an unspoken question.

Donghyuck gratefully takes the knife and settles on the church steps, attempting to stab into the tinplate. His hands are too shaky, bubbling with some sort of fermented anger that the others aren't privy to. Jaemin takes over after a few failed attempts, managing to cut the top off one of the pre-damaged tins of chopped tomatoes. 

"We should open them all first," Donghyuck suggests. 

The sound of Jaemin's blunt sawing begins to grate on Renjun's nerves. The rustle of leaves, heavy breathing and screeching tinplate is hardly a delightful concoction; it makes him feel more on edge than he already was. 

Jaemin sharply inhales and the sound causes a rupture in the tension built up around Renjun's body. His eyes scurry to find Jaemin, whose own eyes are attempting to focus on his bleeding finger. Renjun slouches beside him and inspects the cut — minor damage, thankfully. He sucks the blood away without thinking and bleary eyes meet his. 

From the side, Donghyuck laughs. 

"I'll cut the bloody rest," Renjun groans. It takes him a while to do so and his knuckles hurt like a bitch at the end of it, but his friends are clearly in no shape to be handling sharp objects themselves. 

He grips the closed pocket knife in his palm and holds it out to Jaemin. His eyes hold a different question this time — _why?_ — but Jaemin looks away.

Donghyuck — obviously, given that this is _his_ moronic idea — throws the first tin; Jaemin throws the second; they coax Renjun into throwing the third. It's too dark to get a proper grasp at the colours, but there's an obvious lumpy stain seeping from the church walls like some sort of satanic offering. Donghyuck smushes two baked beans into the eyes of baby Jesus depicted in stained glass; Jaemin laughs at that, and maybe even Renjun smiles — _maybe_. 

It's after Donghyuck throws the fourth tin that they hear it — footsteps, a panting dog. They scurry to hide by the side of the building as the dog-walker strides past, then Donghyuck quickly chucks the last tin across the entrance of the church, grabs his vodka and leads the others back over the brick wall and out onto the street. Jesus' baked bean eyes glower after them as the steps run red. 

As soon as there's a decent enough amount of space between them and the church, Jaemin wobbles in his haste to rest against a lamppost. He's panting deeply, face ghostly white. He splutters on air, then heaves, brown vomit trickling onto grey pavement. 

"Hey, you good?" Renjun asks softly, stepping around the vomit to pat Jaemin's back. Jaemin nods, but his eyes are teary and there's a long strand of spit connected to his bottom lip. The sight slices through at least a few sinews within Renjun's heart. He wraps his own fleece around his knuckles and uses it to clean the mess on Jaemin's face, other hand slipping into his hair to gently hold his head in place. 

"Thanks. Hyuck, can you pass me the vodka?" Donghyuck holds it out but Renjun blocks the passover, eyebrows raised in Jaemin's direction. "Just to get rid of the taste," he supplies. 

Renjun turns back to Donghyuck as Jaemin is wetting his lips. 

"I can't believe you just did that, you bellend." 

He isn't talking about the alcohol, he's talking about the massacre of the church walls and everything else leading up to the point of Jaemin heaving his guts onto the floor. 

Donghyuck shrugs. "No harm done."

But Renjun is plenty delirious.

"There's probably cameras, a little warning would've been fucking nice so that we could at least have covered our faces. If the cops come after us, I'll deck you." 

"Cops?" Jaemin splutters.

"Oh, lighten up," Donghyuck drawls, spinning in wide, lethargic circles across the pavement. "They're not gunna have cameras on a _church_ , they probably think god's giant eyes are watching over it from his seat in the clouds."

Renjun scrunches up his nose. "It was still reckless and uncalled for. I have half a mind to hand you in myself. Save face."

He wouldn't. His threat is as empty as the streets are, as empty as the bleak mulberry sky. Donghyuck knows it, too; he scoffs.

"Don't be so mardy. Aren't _you_ supposed to be the atheist?"

"I'm _also_ supposed to be keeping you — both of you — in check. I certainly don't need to tell you this but vandalism is a crime, Donghyuck. Especially a _church_ , holy fuck — What were you _thinking_?" 

Null question. Donghyuck doesn't think.

Those spectral eyes turn to him, an impish streak offsetting the masses of black. 

"Are we not all just pawns of god? He can do no wrong, no? We were merely offering a service of disillusion." 

Renjun balls his hands into fists. It's instinctive. He hates when Donghyuck acts aloof, hates the good-cop-bad-cop scuffle they so regularly get into. At last, he sighs.

"Just don't pull that shit again, tosser. I have Mark on speed-dial. You know he'll come." 

Donghyuck breaks eye contact, then, to scowl at Renjun's shoes. 

"You should go home now. You've had your fun." Renjun says the words so firmly it sounds like a threat. 

"No. No I haven't. That wasn't _fun_ for me, Renjun. It was necessary."

Renjun comes to a standstill, shoulders slumping. His eyes dart to Jaemin, who shrugs, then settle back on Donghyuck's fraying figure. He dares reach out to take Donghyuck's cold fingers in his. "You can tell us what's going on, y'know?"

Donghyuck looks like a fox caught between headlights — delicate, frightened, kittenish. Protective. He drags his hand away and almost stumbles in his haste to pull back. Renjun watches the way his wavy hair bobs as he spins on his heel.

"I want to fuck somebody."

"You want to _what_?" Renjun splutters.

"You heard. I'm taking the bus into town, I'm sure finding a prozzi can't be too hard." 

"Donghyuck, you know I'm not letting you do that."

"Good thing I ain't asking for your permission. I'm a fucking adult and I'm capable of making my own decisions."

"I don't think so, you're drunk as shit."

"I'm conscious enough to decide where I stick my dick, Renjun." Donghyuck scowls. 

Jaemin hesitantly slinks up beside him, side-eyeing Renjun in the process. "Renjun isn't trying to dictate what you do with your life, he just doesn't want you to make bad decisions."

"Yeah, well, it won't be a bad decision. And if you lot are gunna be mardy I don't want you coming with me, so leave." 

Jaemin sighs. Everyone on the sidewalk knows he's going to regret it — they know him far too well to believe otherwise. But Donghyuck remains adamant, and Renjun and Jaemin find themselves sauntering after him with entwined arms as he seeks out a bus stop.

Turns out, the buses had stopped running well over an hour ago, which has them walking some more in search of a payphone to ring a taxi. Renjun's legs are bloody _tired_ ; he could easily save himself the hassle and let Donghyuck use his Motorola, but there's no way in hell he's running up a bill and draining his battery — certainly not in the name of Donghyuck's idiocracy.

They give the taxi firm directions to a nearby convenience store and loiter outside in wait. The strain in Renjun's tendons is indicative of a citywide lurch, which isn't technically too far from the truth — they've trekked half of Doncaster at this point, and if you asked Renjun to find his way back to the house they were at an hour ago he'd struggle even finding the block — but his body does ache an awful lot.

"Why now?" Jaemin asks suddenly from his spot on the floor. Two pairs of eyes trail downwards, Renjun's with an intrigued glint and Donghyuck's with passive boredom.

"Why ever?" 

Jaemin's frail hands slot together. Checkmate.

He's still fairly drunk, but not as much as Donghyuck is. Donghyuck, who walks around with a bottle of vodka gripped tightly in his palm. Donghyuck, who cuts through the silence like a blade. 

"Time waits for nobody," he says.

And perhaps the sky emphasises his point. Though barely noticeable, it becomes a shade or two lighter with each interval that Renjun gazes upon it. He does so then, spots a single star trailblazing across the abyss, settles finally on the bright moon tucked away in the furthest reaches of the night. 

"We're not going to be nineteen forever, y'know? We won't be _anything_ forever. Living is a luxury, but things are changing — Labour, parliament, _landslide victory_. I just have to hold onto the hope that things'll get better."

Jaemin smiles, holds up a fake glass and goes, "I'll cheers to that." 

"They will," Renjun adds. Change, that is — it's an inevitability.

The taxi driver smiles at them as he pulls up to the pavement. He doesn't need to ask their names, it isn't like there's anyone else around. Donghyuck tries to keep up the chatter, Renjun butts in whenever he feels Donghyuck is about to say something questionable, and Jaemin is lulled into a sickly silence. Renjun's fingers trace circles into the fabric of his trousers to comfort him, stopping once the car crawls towards the semi-lit downtown. Donghyuck pays the fare upon arrival with the last of his money and they stumble out onto the street.

It seems to be getting colder as time goes on; Renjun is feeling it now, limbs light and woozy as they hit the pavement, arms bristling in the reaches of the cool air. He rubs at his them for warmth, smearing the forgotten remnants of Jaemin's earlier accident across his other sleeve. He's a mess.

"How're you paying for this, by the way?" Renjun asks as they find their bearings. "You could barely cover the taxi fare."

Donghyuck smirks. It's insincere. "I'll charge my father's card. I'm sure he'll rejoice that I'm not some sort of celibate pansy after all."

Renjun's jaw goes slack. 

Jaemin looks to the blokes lingering in front of the bar, glasses of beer in hands. Although they don't seem to care about what the three of them are saying, he hisses, " _Donghyuck_ ," nonetheless. 

"If we follow the alleys down to the shady clubs I'm sure I'll find somebody cruising," Donghyuck says, ignoring Jaemin's warning.

"It's dangerous down there," Jaemin comments. 

"I'm not all that trusting of the prostitutes, either." Renjun sighs. He hates this entire situation, he does. Trust Donghyuck to pull Renjun into inescapable havoc. "Do you have a johnny, at least?" 

"I'm horny, not stupid," Donghyuck mutters. "I always carry one in my wallet."

Well... Donghyuck definitely doesn't seem horny — he seems on edge, sure, but for entirely the wrong reasons. Thus Renjun concludes that Donghyuck is, in fact, a moron. 

They travel through the back-alleys, though Jaemin is very hesitant to do so. Perhaps it's the dark, the eeriness, or perhaps it's the fact that crime rates have been at an all time low recently and Donghyuck is dragging them straight into a shark's gaping mouth. The teeth, in this instance of metaphorical circumstance, are the rowdy, bulky blokes roaming the downtown clubs; the drunken roars and mosaic of smashed glass across the ground; the hungry eyes and subtle jeers and dissipating smoke. 

Thankfully — or, not so thankfully — the three of them are approached before Donghyuck can muster up the indecency to attempt to seek out a prostitute himself. They veer further down the seemingly endless road where there isn't anyone to inspect any wrongdoings and a woman trails over to them in too-high heels. 

She's older than them — Renjun's best bet is around thirty; her face is too tightly caked with mismatched foundation and dark eyeshadow to properly tell. Her dress is cut low, showing loose cleavage, and when she talks she bends forward slightly, lips pursed.

For all Renjun knows about Donghyuck's type — which just so happens to be nothing at all — she is not it. She's merely a cougar trying to make money, and Donghyuck—Well, Renjun just wishes to know why the hell Donghyuck is here.

Donghyuck takes the lead in talking to her from the start, and so she continues to ignore Renjun and Jaemin's presence, not viewing them as valid customers. They stand there awkwardly in morbid speciation. 

"Do you take credit card?" Donghyuck asks.

The woman looks perplexed at first — dismayed, almost, as though about to wander off. But then she regains that fake charm of hers in the form of a brutish smile. "I don't, but I know where you can withdraw some cash." 

She doesn't ask how old he is. Doesn't ask for protection. Doesn't ask about his sexual history. Doesn't ask about any diseases. She just steers him away to go grab some cash, and that's that. He doesn't say goodbye, doesn't acknowledge his friends any more than she had, and Renjun feels a surge of panic as soon as Donghyuck is out of sight. 

_Fuck_. 

"This isn't right," he cries out, conscious enough of lowering his voice. "Anything could happen to him, Jaem." 

A hand wraps around his shoulders. "I know. You tried, he's just stubborn."

"I know he's capable of making his own decisions, but he doesn't _want_ this. You see it too, right? I'm not just being over-protective?"

"No, it's quite obvious. But it's his mistake to make, I guess."

"I just don't want anybody to take advantage of him. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I let him get hurt, Jaem. Either of you."

Jaemin smiles, and it provides warmth, at least, in a situation that is anything _but_.

"Should I call Mark?" Renjun asks. 

Their eyes lock; Jaemin nods, strands of pink falling into his face. 

Mark is the only person that has a chance of making Donghyuck see sense. Renjun doesn't know if he'll make it in time to stop Donghyuck altogether, or even if he's reachable at this point in time, but he'll at least be there to pick him up afterwards, in more meanings than one. 

It's like that, with them.

He dials Mark's number. 

M

Mark throws his phone onto the bed as soon as Renjun hangs up; it misses the fabric of his quilt, bounces off the edge and thumps against the floor. He scrambles after it, praying his parents don't stir from the commotion.

He's dressed and jogging to his car within the span of a few minutes, jabbing his keys into the ignition and willing the start-up process to be a little faster. His secondhand Ford may be his pride, but in this moment he has all the patience of a whack-a-mole. He's off as soon as the engine revs into action, squinting his way through empty roads and belatedly realising he'd forgotten his glasses. There's no time to turn back, as much as it hurts his soul to power on.

The establishment he eventually pulls into is practically corroding with squalor; even the geezers sitting out front look a little mean, a little dirty. His bad eyesight manages to pick up on two or three men — boys, rather — a little further down the street, so he slowly cruises along the road until they come properly into focus.

It's them. 

He starts to sigh with relief, but the air gets trapped in his throat when he sees Donghyuck slumped against the curb. He looks dishevelled, angry, and his expression contorts even more at the sight of Mark hurriedly exiting his car. 

Renjun's smile is a morph of thankful and pitiful as Mark peels Donghyuck off the pavement and ushers him towards the warm vehicle. "Goodnight, Donghyuck. You'll thank us later," he remarks. 

Donghyuck flips him off, resentfully climbing into the passenger's side. His body wilts as soon as he hits the seats.

The car slowly fills up with his scent — alcohol and musk and women's cheap perfume and something almost chemically.

It's quiet as Mark drives. It's a little busier in the main part of downtown due to taxis during this time of night, particularly since it's a Friday, but neither of them full the void of silence amidst the periods of wait. Until, eventually, Mark does.

"Care to explain?"

"Not really, no."

Mark tugs at his lip. The silence drowns the atmosphere once more, and he finds himself tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to placate himself. It becomes annoying after a while. 

"I love you Donghyuck, and I'm worried about you."

Donghyuck's eyes flitter from the windscreen to the passenger-side window as he slumps in the opposite direction of Mark. 

"You know I hate to see you like this, that I don't condone the alcohol and the parties and all the other crazy stuff you put yourself through. There are better ways to deal with... whatever it is you're going through."

Donghyuck finally breaks his end of the silence. "And what is it you think I'm going through, oh wise one?" 

His words are all bark, no bite. He's naught but a yapping little puppy testing his owner's patience. Not that Mark is Donghyuck's owner, or even capable of controlling him in any regard. 

Mark shrugs. "Maybe if you spoke to me I'd be able to help. But you're always blocking me out — _us_ out. Renjun was panicking when he called me earlier, Donghyuck. He was losing his mind." 

"Yeah, well he shouldn't have fucking called you in the first place. I told them to leave."

"You _knew_ he wasn't just going to leave you like that. The only reason Renjun tags along with you and Jaemin in to first place is to make sure you're both alright. As your friends, we shouldn't have to babysit you. We shouldn't have to feel as though we're the only barrier between you and something tragic."

"I'm capable of looking after myself," Donghyuck drawls. 

Mark's burst of anger dissipates within a sigh. "Clearly not, Hyuck." He flips down the sun visor. "Look at yourself in the mirror and repeat that. I dare you."

Gradually, Donghyuck looks up through his lashes at the rectangular mirror. Locks eyes with himself. They look like two meteors that'd plummeted down to earth and obliterated everything in their path, his skin blotchy, lips dry. Destruction.

He doesn't repeat himself. He just stares, and stares, until Mark is almost certain the mirror will crack under the intensity. He reaches up to close it, jolting Donghyuck away from whatever demeaning thoughts were entrapping him within himself.

"Speak to me."

"I can't." 

Mark trails his left hand across Donghyuck thigh and confusedly shakes his head at the way the muscles tense under his touch.

"Yes, you can. It's better to let it out than let it escalate into anger. I'm here for you, as your friend, to listen." He gives his thigh a light squeeze. "I won't judge." 

Donghyuck's only response is a dry laugh.

"What?"

Donghyuck's nose scrunches as he sniffs in. "You sure about that?" 

"Sure about what?" 

" _I won't judge_ ," Donghyuck mocks. "Is that not exactly what you god-fearing folk do? God says you can't do this, god says you can't wear that, yadda yadda yadda. I'm _tired_ of your pope shit, Mark."

Mark's eyebrows furrow. He feels a pang of hurt at that, at Donghyuck's blatant dismissal of everything good he stands for. His hand leaves his thigh like it'd been stung. 

"First of all, I don't _fear_ God, I love him. Second of all, don't talk to me like that again. You don't have the right to talk down on me like that, especially when you know full well I would never judge you — God does that all by himself. I try my best to help people _resolve_ that judgement. I'm not the bad guy here." 

It's hard to keep his cool when he's angry, when the very fundamentals of his nature have been challenged. Humans are very much imperfect, and Mark expels emotions like the worst of them, but he doesn't want to blow up at Donghyuck, not really. He's just drunk, cracked at the seams, spitting out the flames that are burning away at his insides. 

He at least attempts to show his remorse, expression like a kicked puppy as his widened eyes finally pan over to Mark.

"I'm sorry," he eventually says. "I know you're a good person." Mark doesn't miss the, "Too good," that he tacks on at the end in an almost-whisper. 

"It's Renjun and Jaemin you should be apologising to," Mark decides. 

Donghyuck huffs and drops his head against his seat, eyes closed. "I know, I know. I don't deserve them," he murmurs.

"It's not a matter of what you deserve, it's a matter of what you have and what you do with it. You're more than what you've become, you just don't know how to grasp it."

One side of Donghyuck's mouth contorts into a slack smile. "I don't deserve shit, Mark."

"That's not true, Hyuck."

"It is." The smile slips off his face quicker than it ever arrived. "I covered the church walls in tomato juice."

Mark blinks away his confusion. Tomato juice? Renjun hadn't mentioned anything like that. But it hardly deters Mark from his original sentiment.

"It'll wash off with the rain."

"That's not the point. The point is, I did it with vengeance, there's no two ways about it."

Mark has little to say to that. 

"You just want to keep thinking I'm worthy of this friendship because you think you care about me... You won't, eventually."

"You're wrong."

Donghyuck zones out, seemingly lost in the endless road before them. Mark expects it to end there, until, "I lost my virginity tonight." 

Mark clears his throat. "I heard."

Silence. Mark grips the steering wheel a tad tighter, his over-protectiveness finally sinking in. "Were you safe? Did anybody do anything to you?"

"Yes and no."

Mark is glad for that, at least, but Donghyuck himself doesn't seem so chuffed — doesn't seem much of anything, really, just continues staring out of the window vaguely, like an empty shell of the Donghyuck he used to know.

Then, from the swell of silence, comes:

"I wanted it to be you."

Mark feels the after-effects of being scaled by boiling water, face surely flushed red to match the blood bubbling beneath his skin, rushing to his fingertips. His blistering fingers grip the steering wheel harder. 

"Pardon?"

"My first time. I-I wish—"

Mark pulls over. There isn't enough sidewalk to be doing so, but there are no cars, only dread and urgency eating away at his skin as he boils alive. He opens his door as if the wind will deter the flames.

"Donghyuck."

But Donghyuck is crying. He hears the choked sob before he sees the glint of tears under the moonlight, and Mark flinches as soon as he does, instincts telling him to reach out, his prior dilemma subduing into panic.

"Hey, hey, don't cry," Mark murmurs. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Donghyuck collapses into himself. "I've ruined it all."

Each drawn-out sob is like a punch to Mark's gut. He's drowning now — drowning in Donghyuck's tears, in resolute sadness. Donghyuck's body shudders with each forced breath of air, but Mark doesn't know what to do except meekly pat his back through his teal tee. 

His once aflame heart is now damp and sordid and lurching into his mouth. 

"You haven't ruined anything," Mark croaks. He doesn't know why his voice is so raw. Perhaps it's the influx of emotions, a mimicry of the devastation that seeps through the knobs of Donghyuck's spine. Perhaps it's because his dear companion is in _turmoil_ and he can’t help but feel like part of the cause.

It takes a while for Donghyuck to be able to speak through his cries. "I ruin everything. You’re right. I drag people into messes that _I_ create. I act like I'm so mighty, so unbreakable," — He's sniffly, thoughts misplaced, words cracking around the edges — "But I'm not. I wish I was brave enough to tell you sober, or strong enough to just move on, but I'm neither. I'm not brave at all. Just dumb, and st _upi_ —"

His voice cracks, and like a broken dam it brings with it an onslaught of fresh tears. Mark rests his hands on his shaking shoulders, manages to tug him into an upright position, but he regrets it immediately when he sees his face. 

Donghyuck's eyes are so _red_ — puffy, bloodshot, glazed with uncontrollable tears. His hands are clenched into fists atop his stained thighs, bottom lip quivering with convoluted tremors, erratic hair sweeping across his forehead. He looks like a weeping statue, only forged of flesh and blood and tears instead of stone.

"I only fucked her to feel some semblance of normality."

The stillness is broken when he harshly punches the dashboard and pulls away with a wince. 

"I hate my parents, religion, myself," he slurs. "I hate it all."

Mark doesn't feel offence on behalf of God. In fact, he thinks he gets it this time. Partially, he blames himself. 

Donghyuck isn't destitute, he's wayward. He also has raw knuckles and wet cheeks, and Mark needs to find a way to ground him. 

"Do you hate me?" Mark asks tentatively. 

"I wish — I wish I could." His voice is choked, but the tears have stopped falling. 

Mark reaches out for his door and closes it, the sound startling both of them. 

"Then let me take care of you."

J

"Y'think Hyuck'll be alright?" Renjun asks.

Jaemin nods, for he has little energy to do much else. He stumbles over to the nearest wall and slumps against it until his arse hits the cold, dirty ground. There's plenty of trodden-in gum to keep him company. 

It smells faintly of sewage, with nodes of battered fish drifting over from the other side of the road. 

"Are _you_ gonna be alright?" 

Jaemin huffs through his nose. "I feel like one of those slimy toy aliens," he replies. Even now, as he speaks, his throat burns from the remnants of bile still coating it. 

Renjun settles down beside him. The unspoken question, _where to next?_ , evaporates into the early morning air. This is, decidedly, where their night ends.

"I'm sorry for not taking better care of you tonight." Renjun sighs. He leans sideways to pull his cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one up. Jaemin wrinkles his nose as soon as the smoke hits the air. "I was distracted." 

"I didn't need taking care of, Donghyuck did." 

Renjun shakes his head and the cigarette pursed between his lips bobs with it. He inhales leisurely, let's his head tip back against the bricks as murky smoke floods out of his open mouth and nostrils, then flicks any excess ash onto the pavement.

As much as Jaemin hates the dramatics of smoking, Renjun admittedly performs it so attractively.

"You cut your finger, puked all over the street — hell, even before you left the party you were complaining about something. It seemed important at the time, but I couldn't really understand what you were saying. And then Donghyuck interrupted."

Jaemin's smile is sheepish. He doesn't recall what he was saying either, though he can probably guess; there are very few important problems on a constant rotation in that head of his.

"Care to spill?" Renjun asks softly, eyebrows briefly flickering skywards. 

Jaemin shrugs. 

Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't. 

He drops his head against Renjun's bony shoulder. The fabric of his beige fleece is soft, has that very Renjun smell about it, all Fairy laundry detergent and something distinctly him, yet not distinctly anything at all. Jaemin closes his eyes and basks in it.

"That's another thing," Renjun notes, "In and out of lucidity. Quiet. You're practically sleepwalking at this point." But a free hand sinks into Jaemin's hair nonetheless, lulling him deeper into so-called lucidity.

"Jus' cold and tired."

"I'd offer you my fleece but I doubt my twig arms will be able to brave the cold," Renjun jokes, procuring a small, hidden smile from Jaemin. "Perhaps it's time I get you home."

"Don't wanna."

Going home means trading Renjun for responsibilities, for pretences... Jaemin quite frankly wouldn't trade Renjun for even the world itself.

Lithe fingers slip out of Jaemin's hair and trail across the back of his neck. Jaemin dares peek at Renjun through his eyelashes, steely eyes monetarily catching his as smoke trails between thin lips. He licks them, swallows, Adam's apple bobbing subtly. Jaemin's eyes sink closed, throat dry. 

There's nobody around and yet his chest feels congested — caged, not only by his ribs. 

A raindrop, ever so lightly kissing his forehead, compels him to reopen his eyes a few moments later. And so begins a weightless downpour, shedding dirt from the streets and a few bucketloads of unease from Jaemin's chest. His eyes follow each bounce of rain against tarmac as the rainfall drowns the earth in its musky scent. 

Renjun's cigarette is all but useless; he flicks it onto the road. It shrivels up, embers washed out, body melting into the concrete.

"I hate the rain," Renjun mutters.

Jaemin hums softly. "I like it."

"I wonder if this is payback from baked bean baby Jesus..."

Jaemin can't help but to snort against Renjun's side. He'd almost forgotten about that — the entire fiasco was mere hours ago, and yet it feels like two lifetimes have already slipped by.

"Perhaps it's for the better if it washes away," Jaemin supplies. "One less thing for Donghyuck to regret in the morning." 

Renjun hums his agreement. "And you?"

"Me?"

"Any regrets?"

"I regret not bringing a warmer jacket," Jaemin mutters. "But I guess I might also regret throwing baked beans at a church, eventually."

Renjun chuckles, the sound slipping through his lips so prettily. Jaemin isn't looking at him, but he can picture the sight — all high cheekbones and curved nose, placid amidst the soft hubbub of the quiet city. 

He wants to kiss him so bad. 

The thought is a common one, albeit a scary one. Not because he fears rejection, but because he fears perception. 

He removes his head from Renjun's shoulder and slouches back against the wall. _Maybe he does_.

"I failed my resit."

"Huh?"

"I failed my resit."

"Okay... That's okay, Jaem."

"It isn't. It sucks," Jaemin spews. "I failed _twice_. I'm no good at this shit. I'm no good at anything except my hobbies, and as I've been told time and time again those won't benefit me because they _don't lead to real jobs_." He says that last part in mimicry of his mother, her downturned lips glowering at him before his very eyes.

Alas, expectations pile up on his shoulders and he keels over from the weight. 

"Yeah, well... It doesn't matter what other people say. You don't have to keep taking exams for something you don't _want_ to pass just to please somebody else. There are so many other options for you, Jaem. Fashion photography, magazines, web design, wedding photography — hell, you could even go into erotica. This is a modern age — creativity is everything and media is becoming just as important and influential as anything else."

"You think media is more important than the brain surgery my family thinks I'm going to save somebody's life with?" 

Renjun laughs again. "The point is, there's no use trying to fit into somebody's else's shoes."

"What if we're the same size?"

"Then you say no to second-hand ideals and buy some new shoes that are _your_ style." 

The analogy is ridiculous, but it dismantles a few pieces of Jaemin's Frankenstein'd brain. He lets out a sigh, and a couple of metaphorical screws fall to the ground.

"Thank you. You always know what to say."

Renjun links his hands behind his neck and leans back against them, eyes settling on Jaemin. His smile isn't smug, it's telling. "I think I've been fine-tuned into always knowing what you need to hear. But I mean it, Jaem."

Sincerity sure is sweet.

"I just didn't know how to tell you guys that I won't be seeing you next year. I think that's what hurts the most about my lack of direction... Being away from you."

"Then we wait until the time is right. Contrary to what Donghyuck says, time is plentiful. It's present, always, and there'll be enough of it for the two of us."

"I guess."

Renjun's hand wraps around Jaemin's wrist as he says, "Just spend the time you _do_ have wisely."

Jaemin hums. 

At this point, his lashes are dripping with raindrops; they run down his face and pool in the creases of his jacket. Club lights and car headlights merge into a kaleidoscopic mess through the flurry of water, bright lines spiralling across his vision.

"Did you hear about the attack at the gay bar the other day?"

"Yeah, how fucking _awful_." Renjun's voice sounds like it's deflating. "The world sucks."

"I like to think it isn't the world, just a few smudge of darkness across the map."

Renjun smiles, raindrop trickling across his cheek as he does. "Perhaps, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Yeah." Jaemin unclasps their hands to pat his jacket pocket. "That's why I... have the knife." 

The gears churn behind Renjun's wide eyes. 

"Oh."

"I-I've never used it, it's just a precaution. Makes me feel a little safer. I know I'm not, like, in any immediate sort of danger, but sometimes I just... panic. I get like that a lot, nowadays."

"Then I'm glad you have it if it makes you feel safe," Renjun says softly. "And as long as I'm here, you'll have me too." 

Jaemin's lips pull into a numb smile; his face is practically immovable, voice lilting, but he focuses on Renjun's steady breathing to keep him afloat on the plane of reality. "So you think your twig arms are enough to defend me?"

"No, but my massive muscles will surely do the trick," Renjun jokes. "They're a bit cold and shrivelled right now, but you'll see."

Jaemin hums a sarcastic tune. "What would I do without you and your massive muscles, huh?"

"Probably die," Renjun deadpans. He looks out across the road, tentative smile on his face, then knocks his elbow against the side of Jaemin's leg as he lets out a laugh that cascades across Jaemin's chest like a waterfall.

He's beautiful, so beautiful. A pale calla lily in the moonlight.

"I want to kiss you so bad."

Renjun's head plops against Jaemin's shoulder this time. 

"I know."

Jaemin looks down. Let's his legs droop flatly against the pavement. Icicle-like fingers tremble against dark tapered trousers. There's pressure against his ears, hot white, and his chest burns with gentle desire. 

There's movement, a pair of gelid lips against his neck. Jaemin lets out a shaky breath, swear he sees a cloud of white form in the air.

"You tryna get us knifed?" Jaemin murmurs. He's only half sarcastic.

"Don't worry, we have a pocket knife and two massive guns." Renjun laughs warmly against Jaemin's neck but pulls away, eyes searching the street before he lowers his voice to say, "There's nobody watching."

They entwine. Renjun's lips are like lily petals in bloom, unfurling against Jaemin's mouth. The kiss is short and cold, yet it incites a warmth so internal he thinks his soul feels it. 

Jaemin pulls back with a small, content smile, and for once in his life he thinks he might know what it feels like to be loved.

D

Donghyuck feels so small. 

It _feels_ like the world is against him. But realistically, this is the world's way of giving him an out. 

His eyes feel monumentally heavy — he keeps them closed. Mark is driving him to a convenience store, something about food, needing him to sober up. All Donghyuck needs is eternal slumber, he thinks.

The engine vibrates beneath his seat until it doesn't. There's a slam, and then Mark is pulling open the passenger-side door and Donghyuck's arms are being prodded at by the wind. 

"Do I have to go in?" Donghyuck groans, glaring out at the petrol station the'd found themselves in. 

"Yes... Let's go!" 

Donghyuck relents, rolling out of the car before Mark can drag him out himself. 

The store lights are too bright against his tired eyes. He must look a right state, the flaws on his face having no shadows to hide amongst. 

He follows Mark through the aisles, lingering by the crisp. "Bummer," he mutters, mainly to himself. "They're out of salt 'n' vinegar." 

Mark rejoins him. "There isn't much here that'll help. You need something heartier." He scours the aisle one final time with a defeated look. "We'll find a chippy instead."

Donghyuck isn't opposed to that — in fact, it sounds plenty better. He'll have salt and vinegar galore on his chips instead. 

Something sweet would bode well, too. Something to nullify his incessant sweet tooth. Perhaps chocolate...

"Jaffa Cakes?" Donghyuck asks.

"Get whatever you want, just make sure to grab a bottle of water."

Donghyuck does grab a bottle of water from one of the shelves; there are no indoor refrigerators, so it's lukewarm and probably tastes like piss, but he takes it nonetheless, for Mark, plopping it onto the counter with his Jaffa Cakes and Mark's own purchases of matches and Vimto.

He slumps against the open door whilst Mark pays, the flow of cold air travelling up his tee and spreading across his back. 

It's then that he realises, far too belatedly, that he doesn't have on his fucking jacket.

"My Diesel jacket," he mutters when Mark walks over to him, bag in hand. "I lost my jacket."

"Didn't know you had one. Good to know, though, that getting hypothermia isn't something else to add onto the list of reckless things you've done tonight."

Donghyuck groans, accidentally knocking the side of his head against the door. He brushes it off like it doesn't hurt, to save face; Mark still smiles — a little too smugly for Donghyuck's liking — and pushes past the open door.

"It had my wallet in it. It had my father's credit card in it — he's gunna fucking _kill_ me, Mark."

"Well, I don't know much about prostitutes but I can say for certain that you aren't getting your stuff back." Mark opens the car door and tosses the plastic bag onto the backseat before slipping into his own. 

Donghyuck stands in the middle of the petrol station, impending doom quickly approaching. " _Fuck_."

"Must've been having too much fun," Mark retorts as Donghyuck squeezes himself back into the car.

His snarky comment quickly encroaches on difficult territory, crawls across his bones, and Donghyuck doesn't like it one bit. Doesn't like that Mark is so clearly ignoring everything he was told earlier, like a pussy.

Alas, Donghyuck has _some_ semblance of thankfulness for Mark’s lack of outburst — he hadn't been disowned yet, at least. 

"As if," is all he says.

It wasn't much of an enlightening experience. It was him, some minger he'd picked up off the street, and a little back-alley with no protection from the temperaments. He couldn't get it up, blamed the cold; he only ever reached half-hardness, and that was only because of the fake offerings of intimacy with another person. She ended up servicing him with her mouth, a ring of cheap red lipstick left in the midst. Donghyuck had hated every second of it.

"Are you a virgin?" Donghyuck asks.

He feels Mark's eyes dart to him, then back to the road. "Yes." He coughs, and the channel switches. "When you find that credit card you owe me, like, ten quid in petrol, by the way."

Donghyuck scowls out at the terrace houses speeding by the car window. “I didn't _ask_ you to pick me up." 

"Touché. But you _did_ ask me for Jaffa Cakes."

"Touché," Donghyuck repeats. He swivels to grab the bag with a complacent smile, pulling out the confectionary in question. He opens up the package and bites around the edges of one, but Mark just delves in, grabs one and shoves it in whole. " _Cretin_."

"By the time you finish eating one like that, it'll be the next millennium."

"It's called _savouring your meal_ , Mark."

"Jaffa Cakes are _not_ a meal." 

The car swerves as Mark pulls up beside a row of shops, a kebab shop and a chippy included — that’d been quick. Surprisingly, the latter has a glowing _open_ sign behind the glass of its door despite it being gone three in the morning. They must know their demographic well. 

"You can wait in the car this time. Unless you'd like to come with?" 

Donghyuck shakes his head. Mark grabs his wallet from the glove compartment and is gone with a swing of the door. Donghyuck watches his small frame plod into the chippy, the strings of his hoodie swaying as he does. He's smiling as he orders, eyes crinkled and cheeks perky. There's a moment where he stands in wait and briefly looks to the car, as though to check up on Donghyuck; he offers a terse smile in return. When Mark finally exits the store with a massive bag of chips wrapped in newspaper, it's to the delight of audible laughter. Donghyuck can't help but to muffle a smile as Mark returns to the driver's seat. 

"Lots of salt and vinegar, to your specification," Mark quips. The tangy smell takes over the interior of the car with the closing of the door — even more so when Mark unwraps it and balances it across the console — and Donghyuck's stomach rumbles with yearning.

They share the chips contentedly in front of the store. It fills Donghyuck's stomach with something other than vodka and regret, something warm that quells the stomach pains he didn't know he had — hearty, indeed.

"Feeling better?" 

Donghyuck hums around a salty finger. He licks the flavouring off it and wipes it dry on the newspaper, settling back against the seat with a full tummy. "They should replace pharmacies with chippies, methinks."

"Ah, yes. The cure for cancer — salt."

Donghyuck's lips twitch. Mark can be funny, sometimes. And Donghyuck knows the next sentence he utters is will probably ruin the mood, but:

"Salt is probably more effective than Invisible Man In The Sky."

Mark raises a brow, but he doesn't retort like Donghyuck expects him to. Instead, he balls up the newspaper and tosses it on the floor of his car, hands coming back up to rest on the steering wheel. Donghyuck feels like a prick. 

"Yours or mine?"

Donghyuck blinks at the question. "Yours? If you don't mind."

The car begins pulling away from the sidewalk. "Of course. Wouldn't want you to die at the hands of your father, even as irritating as you are."

" _Hey_!" 

"Seriously, what're you gunna do about the credit card?"

Donghyuck slumps into himself with a sigh. "I don't know." His hands find his hair to twirl long waves around his fingers; the texture is sorta like hay. He needs a good shower, definitely. "I'll have to tell him to cancel it. Explain. Like I said to Renjun, I'm sure he'll just be happy I'm not a little pansy."

"But you are? — Not that it's—Just. Are you not?"

Panic settles in Donghyuck's veins.

"He doesn't know that. You won't tell him, will you? Or _anyone_ , for that matter.”

"'Course not, Hyuck. What do you take me for?"

He exhales. "Okay, good...”

Donghyuck rests against the door, neck crooked to gaze across at Mark. His eyes are on the road, lips tugged into a slight frown, nose small and sloping. He looks strangely relaxed for somebody that’d been dragged out of bed at two in the morning to run around after his sodding friend only to be plagued with an unwanted confession. 

It begins to softly rain, pitter-patters dancing across the roof, but Donghyuck pays it no mind.

The thing about Mark is that, no matter the situation, he always carries himself with upmost tenderness — you look at him — are forced to, like magnetism — and you feel innermost peace.

Or, at least, Donghyuck does.

"I just... don't know where you stand — Your stance on homosexuality, if you will."

"I don't particularly have one — didn't think I'd need one. But I'm part of the new age so my ideals aren't as conservative as my parents'. I can't say I condone homosexual lifestyles, but I also can't say I'm going to abandon you for straying."

The word _straying_ stays with Donghyuck for the rest of the ride. It's so early in the morning — so late into his night — that the sky is a light grey. Entirely blank. A slate washed clean by rain. In Donghyuck's mind, the sky symbolises their current relationship: no secrets, a fresh start — a learning process, first and foremost. 

Too bad his wounded heart can’t stop spilling red across the rainy grey.

When they finally pull into Mark's driveway, Donghyuck is happy to note that any inklings of a migraine have surpassed. His legs aren't shaky when he gets out of the car, and he manages to trek after Mark like a sentient human, dodging the pellets of water that pour overhead.

"You'll have to be quiet when we go up," Mark whispers, unlocking the door. 

Mark's house always smells the same. A spice rack, rosemary and thyme. Laundry. A hint of wet dog. Donghyuck takes his Converse off at the door and carries them with him to Mark's bedroom, eradicating any signs that he's here.

Mark lends him a hoodie and some pyjama bottoms and leaves him to get dressed while he uses the bathroom. It feels strange, getting ready for bed when the sky is light and your tongue tastes like salt. Donghyuck uses the toilet afterwards, his piss endless. He frowns down at his slightly lipstick-kissed skin, wishes he could shower, but he can't. He uses soapy water instead, splashes his face as well, and by the time he's done, Mark is dressed too.

Donghyuck sinks into the messy, slept-in bed with a surmountable weight atop his chest; he takes up one half of the pillow, Mark belatedly takes up the other. They've done this plenty of times before, though Donghyuck is sure it'll be different now. 

Mark will view him differently forevermore, and he hates that. 

He pulls the quilt up to his chin and rolls onto his side, watching each rise and fall of Mark's chest. His eyes are closed but he clearly isn't asleep, eyelashes succumbing to soft tremors every so often as his eyes move behind his lids.

"You still haven't said anything," Donghyuck softly calls out.

"I don't know what to say, Hyuck." 

Mark's eyes open and fixate on the ceiling.

"I love you." 

His shoulders tense. "I don't dispute that." 

"How does that make you feel? As you, as Mark — not as your religious beliefs."

"I'm an embodiment my religious beliefs. I can't just tear my identities apart to tell you what you want to hear." He rolls over. Face-to-face. "I'm sorry, Hyuck."

Despite that forgery of rejection, Donghyuck itches to touch him. The mole on his cheek, the hair scattered around his head like a halo, the small curve of his pink lips. He's so lovely, always so lovely. Donghyuck squeezes his eyes shut but the image of him is still there, hovering in the blank space of his mind. Before he can comprehend what's happening, his eyes are leaking across the pillow, the image of Mark in his head turning into that of a vicious tiger pouncing at him.

Mark doesn't comfort him. When Donghyuck's tears cease, he opens his eyes to find Mark staring at him. A little stupefied, a little resentful, perhaps a little sad, too. Donghyuck wipes his cheek against his wrist and lays there silently, waiting until one of them to turn away or fall asleep, or for the pillow to swallow him whole. 

"I love you too, if it counts."

It isn't the same. 

Donghyuck allows himself to drag his arm from under the the duvet, let's it hover it in the space between their bodies before reaching up to cup Mark's jaw. It sears. His thumb pans out across Mark's chin, his lips — they're soft, fluttering with inhalations, then exhalations that graze his fingertip. He'd pictured many a time how it would feel to slot his own lips in between them. He wants to, so badly.

But he pulls away. 

"It doesn't."

Mark blushes easy. A sensitive folk. His embarrassment — resentment, even — paints his little ears red. His face, a pretty sunset. 

At least Donghyuck has that.

He flutters his eyelids closed, and through the silence comes Mark’s voice:

"Goodnight, Hyuck."

**Author's Note:**

> :)))
> 
> I hope u enjoyed!! comments r v much appreciated!! have a lovely day!!


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